


The Notebook

by AutumnSwitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean was a hunter during his lifetime, Ghost!Dean - Freeform, Grief, Hunter!Castiel, Living Person/Ghost AU, M/M, Sam is dead, ghost character, seances, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnSwitch/pseuds/AutumnSwitch
Summary: There were the normal creaks and groans of the house… And then there were the things Castiel couldn’t explain away. The sound of boots scuffing along the floorboards was not the roof settling. The doors closing were not moved by the wind.  And the feelings of being watched were not paranoia.  Castiel knew what was out there; he knew of things that ought not to be trifled with.  As a hunter, Castiel had dealt with many hauntings and uncovered the reasons for many unexplained phenomena.He thinks that’s why he bought a house rumored to be haunted, to have a piece of his former life still with him in retirement.>or the Living Person/Ghost AU where Cas finds Dean's hunter notebook and saves Dean from becoming a poltergeist.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 18





	The Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd. Originally posted to tumblr nearly a decade ago.

There were the normal creaks and groans of the house… And then there were the things Castiel couldn’t explain away.

The sound of boots scuffing along the floorboards was not the roof settling. The doors closing were not moved by the wind. And the feelings of being watched were not paranoia. Castiel knew what was out there; he knew of things that ought not to be trifled with. As a hunter, Castiel had dealt with many hauntings and uncovered the reasons for many unexplained phenomena. 

He thinks that’s why he bought a house rumored to be haunted, to have a piece of his former life still with him in retirement. 

Retirement. Right. Castiel had been forced to retire to a life of research and hunter-support since a round with the King of Hell left him with a limp that wouldn’t quit. On the job, Castiel was a liability and he knew it. He pulled himself out of the game, but still, it felt like he was strong-armed into the new role. 

When he first suspected the rumors about the house could be true, Castiel did his research. He thought for sure there would be a story here, but was disappointed to find nothing in print. It wasn’t so unusual for records to be lost. Castiel had done his fair share of “losing documents” to cover up the reality of the supernatural. 

He had moved in anyway. From what he could tell, the spirit meant no harm. And the company wasn’t unwanted. Not wanting to treat his home like another case, Castiel tried not to draw attention to the fact that he knew he was being watched. He thought it best to pretend he didn’t feel the cold spots in the room or see the way the cushion next to him sank as he watched Dr Sexy reruns in the den. Ignored the way large tomes would fall open to the pages he needed. 

The presence of the spirit always felt stronger in the dead of night, but Castiel pretended not to notice. He did such a good job of pretending that Castiel didn’t even realize that he had altered his sleep schedule to accommodate the ghost, to spend more time in its ethereal companionship.

Months went by and nothing “scary” happened. He, the house, and whatever supernatural character also inhabited it lived amiably. It was comforting, in a way, to feel like he was never alone.

Castiel did his best to keep calm and quiet, not wanting to disturb the natural order of things. He kept the house dark, shades drawn at all times. 

It was easy in the winter, to live in perpetual night, but with spring fast approaching Castiel found himself getting restless. He longed for the sweet scent of spring and the warm breeze. But before he did anything, he decided to consult his roommate(s). He wasn’t sure how many spirits shared his home, but it felt like a few. No matter where he was in the house, there was always a cool presence beside him.

His first séance seemed like a flop. Castiel sat on the floor in the parlor with a candle and his third bottle of beer. He knew better than to get sloppy drunk before communing with the dead, but he really didn’t want to do this sober. Everyone had warned him that his physical handicap would make him an easy target for a vengeful spirit. He shouldn’t try to make contact alone, in his weakened state. The discouraging negativity of the hunters who used to rely on him as a leader and fighter nagged at the corners of his mind. By the middle of his beer, Castiel had thought he had found a happy medium in a light buzz. He was only just able to silence their voices and readied himself to engage the other realm.

“Hello.” He started, his voice squawked like a pubescent child. How long had it been since anyone called? Since he’d spoken aloud? Shaking his head to rid himself of pitying thoughts, Castiel cleared his throat and tried again. "I do not wish to be an imposition, so I will only interrupt briefly.” He felt so silly. But it already felt rude to have intruded on this home – on purpose, no less - and he really wanted to continue in harmony with the others. "I would like to open up the windows a bit, let the sun in. May I?” 

There was no response from the gallery and, for the first time, Castiel wondered if he’d just imagined the whole thing. It was possible that he was so lonely that he dreamed up a companion. He stayed on the floor, sipping his beer until the candle burned down and the wick extinguished in a puddle of wax.

With a roll of his eyes and a semblance of a frown, Castiel pushed himself from the floor. Grabbing a fresh bottle of beer from the kitchen, he deposited the dripping candle in the sink and headed to bed. It was early still, but it didn’t seem to matter. Either he was crazy or his roommates didn’t feel as comfortable with him as he did with them. Whichever was the truth, it stung. He lay up in bed and stared at the ceiling.

He got to thinking that maybe he hadn’t been as hospitable as he assumed. He had never attempted to engage the spirits in conversation before. Maybe they had no voice with which to respond. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. 

Whatever the reason for their silence, Castiel felt that he owed it to himself and them to explain his motives. He knew the spirits had seen his books, but maybe they didn’t understand the hunter life. Maybe they thought he was out to get rid of them. He wanted a chance to clarify that he wasn’t interested in sending anyone away. Not, of course, unless that was what they wanted. He had never thought that maybe the spirits with him would want to enter a final peace. 

Well, he thought, he’d already opened the dialogue; what harm could it do to ask?

“I apologize if I’ve offended you in any way. I’m afraid I am a bit out of practice. If you have some way to answer, please try. I don’t… I’m truly hoping that I have not imagined your company. I’d like to help you, if I may. You have lent a hand with much on my behalf.”

Castiel was startled by the sound of rustling fabric near the foot of his bed. The curtains had been drawn back, letting in the soft blue light of evening. He knew the spirits could force objects to move, had seen it in the field and in his current home. His heart leaped at the thought of having at least one of his companions willing to interact with him.

Castiel continued to stare at the ceiling wondering what he would see should his gaze move toward the window. Perhaps he would see a child and his heart would break for the loss of such a young life. Or maybe it would be a wrinkled crone of a woman, mourning her lover’s death and forgetting her own. His heart pounded in his throat with anticipation and he closed his eyes to reduce the temptation to look before he was ready to accept what was before him.

“Thank you,” he said into the dark, “for making yourself known.” There was a breeze, despite the closed windows, and a chill settled over the skin of his arm. Goosebumps spread from the touch. Castiel couldn’t help the fluttering in his chest. 

“I can feel you.” The desire to meet the spirit grew but he kept his eyes firmly shut. His mind flooded with questions: who, why, what, how. “Are there more? Are we alone?”

The edge of the mattress dipped a bit, but there was little by way of answer. The spirit’s touch remained at his arm, but Castiel didn’t know how to interpret the gesture. "My name is Castiel. I am not sure how much you know about me, thus far.” 

Castiel went on to explain his life and the hunts that caused his injuries and eventually led him to this place. He spoke for hours until the ghost’s presence no longer registered as cold. Occasionally, there would be a shift upon the bed, some movement, but mostly his companion offered silence and stillness.

He fell asleep talking into the not-quite-empty room and woke under the cover of thick blankets. The sun streamed in through the dusty windows as Castiel blinked himself awake. It took him a moment to remember where he was, so long he had gone without seeing the morning light. 

Sitting up, Castiel found a notebook laid in the dip of the pillow beside him. He had taken to sleeping on one side of the bed, never really feeling comfortable taking on the middle of a queen-sized mattress. But the notebook was new. Well, no, it was old. Very old, judging by the stained, tattered pages and worn leather cover. But it was something he hadn’t seen before.

Castiel held the book reverently in his hands and began to read. Inside the beaten journal was the story of the Winchesters: John, Mary, Dean, and Sam. They were hunters as well and from what he could tell: talented, dedicated, and admirable. 

Most of the writing read like riddles. The men were careful to conceal the truth of their profession, communicating in a code with which they had become familiar. Even still, Castiel followed as best he could. He devoured their tragedies and triumphs from beginning to end, nose buried in the scribbled passages even as he went about his morning routine. 

The afternoon found Castiel sitting on the back steps, enjoying the crisp smell of the rains to come. As he neared the end of the journal, Castiel slowed his pace. The tragedies contained in the final tear-stained entries were almost too much to bear, but Castiel forced himself on. 

When he had finished, Castiel stared toward the horizon. But his eyes didn’t see the storm clouds rolling in. He didn’t feel the drops of rain upon his face. 

The last page stuck with him. 

_His name was Sam. And I was Dean. We will be lost, forgotten.  
When all is gone, will anything remain?_

It sounded like Dean was anticipating the end of the world. 

Castiel wondered if the spirit had been watching from the house. He hadn’t felt its presence since that night and assumed that he was hanging back. 

Sadness camouflaged by the rain, Castiel spoke the spirit’s name, “Dean?” 

He didn’t expect a response, not really. The man who believed he had given his life for the security and salvation of the world, probably wouldn’t care for Castiel’s tears.

Castiel sat, weathering the storm in quiet reflection. The rain fell to the ground in sheets, saturated the yard and his clothing. 

A wind gust and displacement of raindrops caught his attention. There was a figure standing before him. Castiel couldn’t make out his features or dress. For all intents and purposes the spirit was invisible. He had form but no substance. The rain fell onto and around him, but would not move through. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel tucked the journal under his arm, an apologetic curl to his lip.

“Cas.”

He couldn’t be sure, over the thunder and rain, but he thought he heard the sound of his name. It came again with difficulty, closer this time. Deep and rough. 

Castiel watched as the spirit moved toward him, past him, and into the house. He knew he was probably meant to follow, but he felt hesitation in his step. This wasn’t a child nor an elderly widow. His companion was a hunter, much like himself. Forced into a much more permanent kind of retirement and all but forgotten. It made sense now, the open tomes and scattered clues about the seemingly dead end cases. 

But what about the spirit’s touch? The watchful company he kept through the night? Perhaps this spirit felt as lonely as Castiel had.

Castiel finally made his way inside, following the wet footprints along the tile floor. He sat at the table, taking the chair beside one that was already pulled out and presumably occupied. Castiel reached out into the space and found that he could feel… something. It wasn’t solid, but the space was not empty either. His hand lingered just above where he imagined Dean’s arm to be, feeling the cool tingle of paranormal energy under his palm.

It didn’t matter that his companion had perished decades ago. Castiel felt as though he knew the man. And he had certainly trusted him as they shared their home for the past year. 

“If you need me to burn the journal – to end this existence for you…” Castiel wanted to tell him he could do it, that he would end the spirit’s torment. Surely the deceased hunter had suffered enough. The least he could do was to give Dean peace. But try as he might, Castiel couldn’t say the words. And if he couldn’t speak the offer, then how could he expect himself to go through with the act?

The arm beneath his hand trembled, but Dean made no sound. Without ability to see the man’s expression, Castiel could only guess that he was laughing or crying. From what he head read in the entries Dean had written, Castiel wouldn’t have been surprised to find the man doing both.

After sitting with Dean through an early dinner, Castiel placed the journal on his bookshelf. He tucked it next to the thick books of lore and never referenced it again. It seemed Dean had trusted him with it, not presented it for destruction.

Since Dean shared his family journal, Castiel noticed a sharp increase in his activity. Books floated from the shelves more often, settled on the table and pages turned as if of their own accord. Castiel was grateful he never had any houseguests, because the spirit worked around the clock. Dean threw himself into some kind of research frenzy.

At first, Castiel wondered which of his open cases Dean was trying to help with. He’d peek at the lore Dean was reading and try to make sense of it all without understanding the context.

He could feel Dean’s energy pulsing at a new rate. Frustration and perhaps anxiety at not being able to find what he sought. The switch in his mood worried Castiel. He knew that many spirits, when trapped on this plane for too long, went dark.

True Castiel had only moved into the rickety house about a year ago, but he had grown attached to his companion in that time. He couldn’t think of what he’d force himself to do should Dean’s energy truly turn toward evil. He wished there was something he could do to help.

Between the phone calls and research he had to make in assistance to other hunters, Castiel skimmed through the pile of rejection and failure that Dean had amassed. It was there that he found a common trend and began to understand for what it was that Dean was looking.

Spells, curses, and sigils to bring and hold a spirit from one plane to another. Incantations to give a spirit substance again. Now that Castiel had some idea of what Dean wanted, he worked alongside him to find a way.

Sometimes they would work for hours in frustrated silence, other times a vibration of hope filled the room. On occasion there were days when Dean had gotten so deeply into his research that all would be still. 

“Dean? Are you present?” Castiel’s questions came more frequently the more Dean’s stack of dead ends grew taller. 

Dean would return on a breeze that sounded much like a sigh. He would brush his presence against Castiel’s arm or side, letting the man know that he was there as if in apology. 

Castiel grew acutely aware to the feeling of Dean’s emotion and became accustomed to his company even more so than before. There was an intimacy shared between them in their relative silence. The energy between them spoke volumes that could not be expressed in words alone. Because of this Castiel noticed an immediate change when Dean started to shut him out. 

“Dean?”

Without the ever present buzz of Dean’s energy, Castiel felt alone. He hadn’t felt loneliness that way in longer than he could remember and he found himself frightened for his friend. He feared Dean was losing his grip. Or worse, that Dean felt the need to hide his dark-ward turn.

“Dean? Are you there?”

Castiel’s questions rang through the room but no response was made. With the hope that Dean was lurking in the shadows, Castiel tried speaking aloud to him. He realized he could have been, perhaps should have been, doing that all along.

“We will find a way to give you your form. And if there is a way to do more than that, to give you life, we can do that as well. Whatever you need. I am here.”

Still there was no answer.

He tried again, “Are you there?”

A static jolt hit Castiel from the side and the man flinched at the spark. "Dean? Is that you?“

The spark came again.

Castiel’s worry increased tenfold. This was not the same cool, comforting touch Dean had been able to offer before. The hair on Castiel’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end. His heart pounded against his rib cage.

Castiel turned to his laptop in urgency, sending out an all points bulletin for any information his network had on spirits, ghost, and – it shamed him to type it – poltergeists. For weeks there was nothing new, not even a wild goose to chase.

Dean continued to shock like static, but Castiel assured him that he’d rather feel the crackling of his presence than nothing at all. Dean rarely listened to Castiel’s requests and even as they became pleas, he often shied away. 

Finally a package came that seemed to be the answer they needed. With jars and satchels of ingredients, an incantation scroll, and a bowl of pounded metal, there was a letter. The message explained it was an old curse, one that would tear a soul from the other realm and lock it in the human plane. But it was developed as a trap, not to give freedom. The soul would be bound, forever, to the one who called it through. 

Castiel left the letter and the package in the center of the table. He left the room. 

He hadn’t felt Dean’s presence in days and he understood that his friend was more likely to examine the package if he was able to do it on his own. 

Castiel took a walk.

When he returned, the bowl and ingredients were laid out on the floor and Dean’s static hovered at the doorway. 

“Are you certain this is what you want?” Castiel looked into the blank space beside him and felt a quiet resolve radiating from it. It didn’t seem like Dean had much faith in the curse, but he felt it was worth giving a try.

Together, they meticulously arranged each item in its proper place. Castiel practiced the pronunciation of the ancient language until Dean gave his spark of approval. Finally, it was time. 

Castiel stood over the bowl filled with sanctified earth and foul-smelling herbs. He dropped a match in the mix and stood firm as the curse took ignition. Holding his hand above the cold flame, Castiel chanted the words he had practiced. As he spoke, the flame grew taller, until it was almost reaching his palm. 

Still, Castiel held his ground. Still, the flame was made stronger. 

The incantation read like a song; the more Castiel repeated it, the easier it became to say and the more pleasant it was to the ear. Castiel continued until the flame engulfed his hand, wrapped around his wrist, and spread up to his shoulder. 

There was no heat to it, not initially. As the flame curled and twisted around his arm, the last of the bowl’s ingredients smothered to ash. Castiel examined his hand before holding it outstretched before him. 

Dean had read the curse’s instructions as well as he had. Dean knew that this was the point where his presence was truly needed. And yet, Castiel felt his hesitation. 

For Castiel to speak would be to break the spell, so he remained silent. He could understand how Dean would give pause before sealing his fate to Castiel. He only hoped that the spirit would make his decision before their chance was lost.

Finally, Castiel felt Dean step toward him. His energy made contact with the flame and Castiel’s hand jumped before it was able to grab hold. The flame drew life from Castiel, searing his hand to Dean like a brand. For a moment, Dean’s form flickered. Like an old reel of film, his image blinked in and out. Dean looked younger than Castiel had thought. Ruggedly handsome with his crooked smile. Castiel stared on in wonder, willing the curse to take hold, eager for his image to stick. 

When the flame extinguished, Castiel’s hand fell and he dropped to his knees, exhausted. Chest heaving for air, he lifted his tired eyes to the room and found… nothing. The curse seemed to have failed and whatever shred of hope Dean had had left the room in an instant. 

Apologies falling from his lips, Castiel dragged himself to the bookcase and buried his head in his hands. He didn’t know what else to try, had no other leads. And Dean’s energy moved with reckless abandon. He heard the man stomping over the floorboards and slamming doors hard enough to shake the walls. Light bulbs popped and books toppled from their shelves. But no harm came to Castiel.

Feeling defeated, Castiel knew he wouldn’t be of much help until he was able to rest. Lying in bed, barely awake, Castiel made promises to Dean that they would keep looking, find something. He would widen their search; seek out hunters and scholars beyond their network. Castiel spoke about his plans until the house grew quiet, until he felt Dean settle next to him on the mattress. 

He reached out to him, with his hand that had once been flame, and felt for the spirit’s energy. He expected something like the shock of touching a live wire, so infuriated his friend had been. What he felt instead was a pleasant surprise; Dean’s spirit had returned to its former chill. Dean no longer gave off waves of anger and disappointment, which Castiel took to be a blessing. 

His hand resting over Dean’s cool presence, Castiel rambled on as he drifted to sleep.

When he woke, it took him a while to realize he was not dreaming. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, went as far as to pinch himself just to prove it was real. Dean was there, lying beside him. Not human, not solid. But there. Staring back at him, wearing a gentle smile and fond expression. 

Castiel swallowed hard in his dry throat and managed a quiet, “Hello Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes went wide and his lips formed an o of surprise. After a moment of disbelief, Dean tried out his voice. “Hey, Cas.” 

Castiel watched as Dean closed his eyes in what looked like a prayer of gratitude. He wondered how long it had been since Dean had heard his own voice. Dean said his name again. 

“Cas.” His voice was soft and deep, rolling out of his throat and into the space between them. 

* * *

Being in a relationship with a ghost certainly had its downfalls. But sex was, surprisingly, not one of them. Dean was a giver. He never got tired and was always interested in trying something new. Apparently, not sleeping gave him more than enough time to come up with endlessly creative ways to keep Castiel satisfied. But for all the quirky, kinky games Dean devised to get Cas off, Castiel’s favorite was always Dean’s mouth. 

Physically, any part of Dean felt much like the rest. A cool buzz of energy that seemed to penetrate Castiel’s flesh to the bone. There was little difference in ‘feel’ between Dean’s hand and his mouth. But there was something about being able to look down and see Dean’s full, pink lips wrapped around his cock that took Castiel to another place entirely. 


End file.
